In preparation to return to Lookout, I pick berries from the squat fracksaw cactus. The purple globes will soften when I boil them and make a sweet paste for our dry wafers.
Above, Mirko whistles a warning. With a thwimp, my javelin strikes the soil at my ankle. I had left it in my alcove, as I was only collecting berries. I spin around.
Droslump drags his robe across the sand while advancing with speed toward me. I’m far from the mesa, so this must be important. My muscles tighten, and Mirko circles to my side. Beyond Droslump, the Baltang are departing for patrol.
I tug my javelin from the ground to see the handle carving has been struck through. The pictures Father made, the intricate wool curls and the smoke rising from our house, are marred with black lines of soot and deep hashes. I cover the damage with my hand. Mirko burbles empathy and lowers himself on his haunches. Droslump approaches, presenting another javelin.
“Standard Madronian javelins have no ornamentation!” Droslump thrusts it into my free fist. Mirko growls, forcing me to block him from Droslump’s path. I have seen other boys with images on their weapons. The govern merely looked for anything that could hurt me.
“My father — ”
Droslump squints, and my words are sliced off behind my tongue. He snatches my javelin from my hand and cracks it over his knee. The sound jars my teeth. He throws the pieces to the dirt, raises a whip from his robe, and lashes before I can fully turn my back. The slash curls over my backbone and licks my side. I duck and roll, expecting more strikes.
Instead, Droslump sputters and curses. I peek under my arm and see Mirko flapping violently, finally ripping the whip from the Madronian’s hands. With a bugle, my rapion flings the weapon and flares each pinion above the govern, whose face blanches. My rapion, now nearly full size, is ferocious.
Droslump steps away mumbling what I know are empty threats. He bends and retrieves his whip while keeping Mirko in sight. Hatred is carved on his face as he looks at me a last time.
Mirko advances, screeching and swooping. Droslump cowers and ducks, then jogs to the mesa.
“Mirko!” I shout. He turns and flies to me. I run my fingers across my back. There is no blood drawn, because my breastwrap cut the whip sting. But even if it had cut deeply, my own hatred is hotter than the lash. I slide the Madronian javelin into my hip holder.
Mirko lands at my side, chittering. “I’m fine, but that was dangerous, my friend.”
He tosses his head at Droslump receding. When the govern is out of sight, Mirko nudges through my broken javelin pieces.
“That javelin bested the cat and came from Father’s hand,” I say. Mirko nudges a piece toward me until I pick it up. “Yes, I’ll save this.”
With my knife, I cut away an undamaged chunk and bore a hole through the end. Tugging a leather strip from my pack, I lace it through the wood and dangle it around my neck.
Mirko kicks dirt over the rest of the pieces. He whistles at me and flaps toward Lookout. Stuffing the fracksaw berries deep into my pockets, I follow.
I finger the bit of wood dangling from my neck. It’s engraved with an image made to look like a rapion flapping on the horizon, but I know it is Father’s image of an open book: The Oracles of the Creator.